


Souvenirs

by Kalashnikorn



Series: Tales from the Hunt [2]
Category: Mad Max (1979), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4846241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalashnikorn/pseuds/Kalashnikorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roop can be very sentimental about his possessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souvenirs

_“Get this shit off your desk, Roop.”_ Said Fifi, having the audacity to knock over my hula girl in the process. “Look at all this. Like a table at a yard sale. Fine representative of the MFP, you are.” Watch your mouth, _boss._ That’s my record of service. That’s my tangible reminder that I’m making the world a better place.

 

Once, that hula girl danced upon the dashboard of some Armalite scag. She rocked along happily, until her master had the misfortune of catching my bullet with his face. Nothing compares to the feeling of lining up the crosshairs at 130 km/h, fixed on a shit-eating grin. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger, just the upwelling of joy from watching his head disappear in a chunky spray and his shit-mobile careen off into the scrub. And there I found her, an unwitting little accomplice that caught a serendipitously strewn chunk of gray matter in her tiny hand, which she holds to this day. There she stood in the wreckage, smiling and dancing along. A kindred spirit of mine.

 

Beside her, dangling from a desk lamp, is Norma. I split my thumbnail prying open that locket, only to be rewarded with the faded visage of some dead-eyed smiling woman accompanied by cramped handwriting that read:

“Can’t wait to see you again! ~Norma”

Well, that’s a cryin’ shame, Norma. Should’ve picked a better man.

Her fine gold chain is now held together by that tenacious standby, good old-fashioned silver duct tape. What a godsend, since that scag wouldn’t let go of her. The damned brute snapped the links as I pried her from his hand, just before the light left his eyes.

 

But the crown jewel of my collection isn’t kept at the station, no. It never leaves my side. It’s no longer readable, and if it were, the fact that I removed the battery isn’t doing it any favors, at least in the eyes of the ignorant. But it’s nice, isn’t it? Don’t roll your eyes at me. This silver Rolex commemorates September 28th, 4:47, the very minute I learned _I could do this job._ That, with the twitch of a finger, I can make a difference _._ This watch rattled upon that scag’s wrist as he herded men, women, and children, into his big rig, auctioning them off as slaves for the wants and desires of those with the means and the will. It glistened beside platinum cuff links as he tallied the price of a human being. And it cracked its face on the pavement when I cut him down, splaying him in the dirt beside a flat, desiccated old dingo. Now, the symbol of his fortune hangs upon my right arm, paying silent witness as I dole out justice on the roads.

Funny story. Even though he was half the man he once was, torso spilling out as his hips were off in some entirely different direction, the boys from the meat truck took the time to declare him dead. Dead at the scene, 4:47, they said. _You don’t say._

But at that minute, I learned that my _talents_ could do the world good. So long as I’m not entangled by red tape or bullshit laws about indicators or some shit, I can fight back against the horde that plagues sections eighteen to thirty-one. I’ll gladly cut a Big Run short and save the system the trouble of legal frivolities. I’m your taxpayer dollars at work. You’re welcome.

 

Fifi, you really ought to be more grateful. But you know, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re numb to it all, to the point that you’re high on your own delusions. Clinging to some unhinged nonsense about heroism isn’t becoming on you, Fif. It’s worthless to the MFP and the good citizens alike. Sooner or later, you’ll march the last of us to our deaths, pitting us against hardened criminals as we jockey 600 horses of fuel-injected fury in some ridiculous sendup of comic-book justice. But for now, spare us your histrionics, and by all means, keep judging me by my desk.

 

That leather scarf of yours is looking mighty fine.


End file.
